Pussycat
by madame.alexandra
Summary: Or, the story behind why Leroy Jethro Gibbs was forced to shave his moustache. Jibbs (oh, very). M for subject matter.


_A/N: The Sixth was plenty angsty, why not some light (albeit vulgar) Jibbs to wash it down with? If you're opposed to crude slang, I advice you to leave now, otherwise? Lead on, MacDuff, to discover how Leroy Jethro Gibbs lost his Season 4 moustache..._

* * *

_Pussycat_

Jenny's eyes fluttered and she bit her lower lip. She covered her mouth lightly with her hand, tilting her head back—struggling to silence either a moan or a laugh; she wasn't quite sure what the tickle in the back of her throat was.

Gibbs moved his head, his broad shoulders brushing her thighs, and she gasped, her stomach contracting—and it was the laugh that triumphed. She twisted a hand in the sheets next to her and laughed through her fingers, breathless and apologetic.

He growled at her in annoyance, his hand snaking up to run over her thigh, and she bit her lip, trying to stifle another giggle. He moved his head again, using a familiar move that was altered by his, ah, Mexican Makeover—and she burst into laughter again, twisting away from him.

He clamped his hand down on her thigh, just above the knee, and lifted his head, glaring at her.

She widened her eyes at him innocently, breathing out slowly to calm down, and gave him a pleading, sultry look, her green eyes bright and enticing. His glare died down and he ran his hands up her thighs again, lowering his head between her legs—

-and she squealed with laughter, covering her mouth to attempt to muffle it _again,_ her abdomen tightening at the sensation that rocked through her.

He pinched her leg mildly this time and narrowed his eyes.

"You want me to go down on you or not, Jen?"

She blushed, and she swiftly slid her hand down her stomach, lacing her fingers into his hair, trying to coax him in a nonchalant way to keep doing what he was doing without having to explain herself. He pressed her thighs into the bed, growling a flippant order for her to _be still_, and touched his lips—

-Jenny threw her head back and laughed _again,_ her back arching, completely unable to tune into to the sensuality of the act. She tightened her grip in his hair and pulled his head up, biting her lip and shifting to meet his eyes as he glared at her, really glared at her for what had to be the twentieth time since he'd kissed his way from her neck to her navel.

"You'd think it was your first time," he barked at her, arching a brow.

She shook her head and puckered her lips, lifting her shoulders and pulling a sheet over her top for a little warmth.

"It tickles," she admitted, clearly still holding back laughter. "It tickles, Jethro, it has to go."

"What?" he demanded, annoyed, a glint of confusion in his eyes.

"The _moustache_, it tickles, it has to _go_!" she burst out, a smirk lighting up her face.

He sat back on his knees at the foot of her bed and stared at her, hands still gripping her thighs, holding them apart. She took one look at his expression and rolled over, bursting into helpless laughter again, her face buried in the sheets.

Her legs slipped out of his grip, and after a moment of stunned silence, he narrowed his eyes and went after her, laying his hand on her ass in a light slap as he crawled over her and trapped her between his legs.

"Though you liked my hair long," he retorted, putting his lips close to her ear.

She squealed and her body shook with giggles again, it tickled _everywhere,_ it wasn't just his going down on her, it was his kissing her, his whispering to her, she was reduced to silent giggles at the way it _looked_ when he drank coffee—the moustache had to _go_.

Jenny shook her head, red hair flying, tangling up. She wriggled in his grip and turned to him, arching an eyebrow.

"I _like_ you clean shaven," she said, eyeing the moustache with a wicked smirk.

He nipped at her shoulder and then pinned her down, crawling back down to the edge of her bed and pulling her towards him, sliding her legs over his shoulder easily. She shrieked and wrinkled her nose, kicking her legs a little until he grabbed her ankles and glared at her.

He slowly slid his hand up her calve, over her knee, and along the inside of her thigh, moving closer to her, his mouth twisted in a smirk, and she glared at him, pushing at the side of his head with her toes.

"Jethro," she moaned breathily. "I don't like it," she whined.

"Shoulda thought about that before you pushed my head down."

She gasped in outrage. She had done no such-! He had taken this upon himself! She cocked an eyebrow primly and gave him a look, and then she clicked her tongue slowly, her lips puckered.

"Shave it, Jethro," she ordered huskily. "My _cat_ doesn't like your _whiskers_."

He stared at her again, caught off guard by her metaphor or—whatever.

"Your-?"

"Synonyms for cat, Jethro," she sighed, her eyes on him steadily while he worked it out.

"Ah," he said gruffly, realization dawning on his face—and to her utter and unexpected delight, a blush shot across his nose and he narrowed his eyes at her, speechless. She bit her lip and looked at him through her lashes coyly, laugher bubbling to her lips again.

He moved his hand over her intimately, fingers teasing her a little, teasing her until she gasped a little and almost begged him to thrust them inside her; he gave her a mock-concerned look, lowered his voice, and asked:

"What about _these_ whiskers, Jen?"

She covered her face and burst out laughing, trying to shield her own blush from his eyes.

There came a point in an adult relationship when two people knew each other so well that sex didn't always have to be _sexy,_ and remembering that she had that with Jethro—even after all these years—never failed to make her happy.

She twisted out of his grip and wrapped herself in her blanket, upending all of the pillows and rolling into her stomach. He leaned onto her bed, still sitting on his knees on the floor, and ran his hand over his mouth and jaw, as if showing off the damn facial hair.

Her hair fell over her face in a tangled mess and she bit her lip, arching her brow.

"Shave the mustache, Jethro," she said silkily, as she leaned forward, her mouth close to his, and put her index finger on his lips, tilting her head fetchingly.

"What's in it for me?" he asked boldly.

She twitched her nose, lowering her lashes.

"That thing I did in Serbia?" she bribed, her tone racy.

His mouth went dry. He looked at her greedily, and leaned forward, seeking a kiss—she wrinkled her nose in amusement and leaned back a little.

"It tickles my lips, too," she admitted, dodging his kiss.

He reached into her hair and pulled her head forward, his eyes boring into hers heatedly. She parted her lips, her heart speeding up, and her breath caught in her throat; he looked like he was about to talk dirty to her—but she'd never in her _life_ heard Jethro _really_ talk dirty to her; she was the one who was the talker.

She tilted her head and licked her lips, eyes flashing with something risqué.

"The whiskers make you look like a _pussycat,_ Jethro," she drawled throatily, tilting her head closer and brushing his lips with hers as she spoke.

He made a gruff, scoffing noise in the back of his throat and kissed her slowly, bringing another helpless giggle to her lips as that ridiculous mustache tantalized her lips and cheeks again.

"That make you catnip, Jen?"

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_So many lewd jokes I CAN'T EVEN  
This might be because True Blood made me way too comfortable with the slang 'pussy'.  
-Alexandra  
#story #107_


End file.
